


Remains

by alixinsanity



Category: Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Amnesia, Bodyguard, Bucky Barnes Has Issues, Bucky Barnes Needs a Hug, Bucky Barnes's Metal Arm, Bucky is the president's son, Deaf Clint Barton, Eventual Romance, F/M, Kidnapping, Kinda, M/M, Memory Loss, Natasha Romanov Is a Good Bro, Politics, Protective Steve Rogers, Recovery, Secret Service - Freeform, Slow Build, Torture
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-16
Updated: 2015-05-21
Packaged: 2018-03-30 20:18:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,527
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3950341
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alixinsanity/pseuds/alixinsanity
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Bucky. My name is Captain Steve Rogers." Steve answered quickly as he picked up his shield off of the ground. </p>
<p>"You here to rescue me?" Bucky croaked out the words again with a small tinge of sarcasm to his voice</p>
<p>"Yes..."</p>
<p> </p>
<p>James 'Bucky' Barnes is the son of The President of The United States, and when he was kidnapped, they sent Captain Steve Rogers and his team to rescue him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Rescue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just to quickly clarify; although it is a No Powers AU, Steve still has his shield (which will be explained in the story).

It had started off as a normal day for James Buchanan 'Bucky' Barnes; get up, get dressed, eat breakfast, and then start on the daily list of shit his father and the PA's gave him to do. Usually it was little things; cutting ribbons, go to charity events, smile as he stood with his mother and his father at fancy dinners, and the occasional interview. It was all part of being the son of the President of the United States. 

Today was no different. Bucky was in Europe visiting some of the Foreign Embassies. His father had said it was a good bit of PR, and that it would show him doing something with his day. Some of the newspapers had been making comments for a few months now about Bucky not being a college student, and now took the opportunity to make a lot of jokes and comments about his supposed laziness. Bucky took it in stride. He knew why he wasn't in college, and he knew it wasn't laziness; it hadn't even bothered him when a newspaper had somehow managed to get some of his old grades from high school. Who in America really cared that he got an ‘F’ in Art, and a ‘C’ in Geography? His father cared though; and since the articles started, President George M. Barnes had made it his mission to make sure Bucky was seen doing as much charity and political work as possible. The Foreign Embassy trip was one of these missions. 

Everything went okay; Bucky had smiled, he had shook hands, and he had posed for photographs. He then got in the backseat of the car, and politely waved at the crowds of both public and press around the embassy as he was driven away. His security officer, a big built guy whom everyone called Bob, even though his name was Martin, drove away from the city and onto the motorway; heading for the airport so they could go to the next country and the next embassy of the day. Bucky hated flying, but they couldn't really drive from embassy to embassy.

They had been driving down a relatively empty stretch of motorway when it all happened. Instead of time slowing down like it did in the movies, Bucky swore it sped up. One moment they were driving along, joking about a movie they had watched the night before, and the next moment the car was spinning and flipping through the air. Crashing back onto the tarmac, the car skidded on its roof until it lost momentum and stopped. Bucky clutched his throbbing head with his right hand, wishing he had listened to his mother as a child about wearing his seatbelt; as the car had flipped and spun, Bucky who hadn't been strapped in, had flipped and spun with it. With the car now on its roof, Bucky found himself lying on his back, his left side pressed up against the side of the car with bits of gravel and glass scattered around him. He knew he was extremely lucky that he didn't go through the windshield.

"Bob!" He called out, coughing as he gasped for air. 

The crash had winded him; his chest throbbed with every cough, and ached with every breath. His head span around as he tried to find where his security officer was, but there was no one else lying on the roof of the car, and nor was there anyone strapped into the seats. Bucky took in his battered surroundings and felt his gut drop as he saw the man sized hole in the supposedly bullet-proof windshield. Bucky sobbed and took a deep inhale of breath, immediately regretting it when pain stabbed through his side, and the smell of petrol filled his lungs. _Shit, petrol. It was leaking. The car was a fireball waiting to happen. Bucky had to move._

His back throbbed as he attempted to roll onto his side, and when he tried to move his hands so that he could push himself up, he found he could not move his left hand. Bucky whimpered as he looked to his side; he saw his arm was sticking out of the window and was trapped by something. He cursed himself for having had the window open; his arm wouldn't be stuck if he'd had the window closed. Using his right arm, he tried to push himself one-handed into a seated position, crying out as he remembered a moment too late about the smashed glass that was scattered around him. The glass embedded itself into the palm of his hand, and blood flowed quickly from the dozen of cuts that he had accidently given himself. Clenching his bloody fist, Bucky tried to push himself up using his elbow, hoping that the material of his suit jacket would protect his flesh slightly. Pain flooded through him before he could even push himself up two inches off the floor, causing him to crash back down.

Through the hole in the windscreen he could see a small group of people dressed in black running towards the wrecked car. Help; they would help him get out. Three members of the group ran to the side of the car that he was on, and he could hear them muttering in a language he did not understand as they tried to open the door to the backseat. He could see feet through the window on the opposite side of the car, and he heard them muttering in the language once more as they tried once again to open the door to no avail. Even though he didn't understand what was being said outside, Bucky could tell when someone snapped at someone else. 

Even without knowing the language that was being spoken around him, Bucky figured out what one of the group had been told to do; as someone smashed the window to the front passenger door, littering glass over his trousers. A hand wielding a torch appeared, followed by a masked head. Bucky began to panic, kicking his feet out at the masked figure as the torch was shined at his left shoulder, and where it disappeared through the window and towards where his arm from the bicep down was trapped. Panic and fear coursed through his body, joining the pain that was already racing through his veins; one of the first things his bodyguards over the years had taught him was never trust someone who was deliberately hiding their face. The figure who had stuck his head through the window, disappeared as quickly as he had appeared, leaving Bucky to panic trapped inside the car. The figure had been wearing a thick wool balaclava that completely covered the face and a pair of dark goggles that hid the eyes. He knew these people weren't here to help him.

He heard a chainsaw starting outside and knew that it was right next to him. The group outside was going to cut open the door; and that made Bucky panic more. Why would these people have a chainsaw ready, unless they knew something was going to happen? The fact that the person he had been able to see was decked in something that would fully cover the face set alarm bells off even more. Did they cause the crash? 

Bucky turned his head so he could try to look through the window to his left, trying to watch whatever was going on outside, and trying to see what they were doing with the chainsaw. The sight of his left arm going through the space between the door frame and the window, and then disappearing beneath whatever it was which was trapping it, made Bucky's stomach churn. He could see blood on the concrete around the thing blocking his arm, and he could see the people standing in the puddle it was creating. Whatever was on top of his arm was blocking a large quantity of his view, but he could see one of the figures bending down next to the door and next to his arm, and then he saw the rusted metal of the chainsaw as it moved closer and closer.

 

**

 

There was a dripping pipe in the cell that he was being held in; the water leaving a puddle on the cold, gravely floor. The drip was a constant in his limited world; drip, pause, drip. When he had first woken up in the cell, and after he had stopped screaming in fear, the noise from the dripping drove him mad. It had made him scream in frustration, instead of in fear as he brought his heavily bandaged hands to cover his ears in an attempt to escape the noise. But the longer he was forced to stay in the cold concrete cell, the more he got used to the sound. Bucky didn't know what he would do if that pipe stopped dripping.

The pipe wasn't the only thing he heard though. There was the occasional scurrying of rats, as the creatures moved invisibly around the room. Bucky had long since become used to the feel of the creatures on his skin, and had gotten over his disgust; now he simply brushed his hands at the animals when he felt them rub against his body. 

At times he could also hear people talking in the space outside of his cell, but the voices were too muffled to fully understand. Bucky didn't know if he'd be able to understand them anyways. Though he caught the sound of voices, he couldn’t hear them well enough to know what language they were speaking; not that the language really mattered if he couldn't hear the words. The cell he was in was made up of concrete walls and a steel door. The steel door was impenetrable and even sound found it hard to get in. 

There was a speaker somewhere in the room though, but Bucky didn't know where. It could have been on the walls, in a corner or attached to his ear for all he knew. He wasn't able to see anything in the room, so he had long since given up trying to figure out the source of the speaker’s location. After being used to a near silence, it always seemed so loud when the voices came through the speakers; the sounds echoed around the concrete cell, hiding the speaker’s location even more than the dark already did. 

Bucky was oblivious to time, the complete lack of anything, but pain made it impossible to figure out just how long he had been held prisoner. He didn't know if it had been a week, or a month; a year or a decade. He couldn't even use his meals as an attempt to figure out; he was certain that he didn't receive the pitiful excuse of food regularly. Sometime it felt like he was being forced to go a fortnight without a 'meal', being shoved through the hole that would appear in the door. The hole in the bottom of the door would close as quickly as it opened, leaving Bucky to stumble in the darkness towards where light had previously been. Sometime he found himself fumbling on the floor for ages to find the bowl of slop. Sometimes he couldn't find it, and had to convince himself the food was a hallucination. They didn't even regularly provide him with water, and Bucky often had to wait open mouth beneath the dripping pipe just to quench his thirst.

 

When he had first woke up in the room, he had encouraged himself trying to stay positive; your father wouldn't let you be taken hostage. Father was going to send help. I'm going to be rescued. However, the longer Bucky spent trapped and blinded in the pitch black cell, the more the thoughts became negative. Maybe he doesn't care. Maybe they all think I am dead. I wish I were dead, and then I wouldn't have to deal with all of this, and all of this pain. God the pain. His body ached; there wasn't a single bit of it that didn’t burn every time he moved. His shoulders and back were the worst, and he couldn't even bare to stand; every time he tried to stand up, he found himself falling straight back over as if he was off balance. He had resorted to crawling along the floor on his hands and knees. It was still painful as hell, but at least it stopped him from falling to the ground and making the pain even worse. Although he couldn't see, he knew that the knees of his trousers had long since worn away; and he knew he was probably filthy and covered in things he didn't even want to think about. 

Bucky didn't know how long he spent in the back room, but one day the hole in the door opened, and instead of a bowl of gruel appearing, a smoking canister rolled across the floor. Bucky could see the smoke spreading and filling the room, before the hole was once again closed and the room returned to its blackened state. So this is how I'm going to die. Gassed? As if I was nothing more than a cockroach. The smoke caught in his lungs, making him cough and cry out in panic. Although he couldn’t see it, he knew the room was filling up more. Bucky grasped at his throat just as whatever was in the smoke kicked in; leaving him slumped on the floor. Just as his began to lose consciousness, Bucky was blinded by the door to the cell opening fully, bathing the black room in the white light that snuck in from the corridor. Just as his eyes closed, he saw four men in hazmat suits stepping into the cell. All of them moving towards him. 

 

**

 

He woke up bound to a table with a white light dangling above him. He screamed once before he once again passed out. 

 

The next time he woke up, he was back in a cell; though he noted this one was slightly different to the one he had been in previously. There were lights screwed into the wall, far too high up for him to reach even if he jumped. Though the walls were still concrete, the door was made from a slightly less hard material, and had a barred window, looking out into the corridor. Bucky nearly cried when he saw this cell also had a toilet and sink combo in the corner of the room. In his other cell he had to simply accept that he was being treated as nothing more than an animal, and he had mentally cried every time he had to defecate on the floor like one. There was a holey blanket folded in one corner, as well as an even holier hoodie that sat next to it. It was then that Bucky noticed he had been changed, and instead of wearing the tattered remnants of a filthy suit, he was now dressed in a set of ill-fitting scrubs. He wasn't complaining though; and he fought back the feeling of disgust when he imagined someone undressing him when he wasn't conscious. It was just another thing of privacy that he had lost. 

 

His move into the new cell wasn't the only thing that changed. Now every day, or Bucky assumed it was every day, he was taken from the cell and escorted through the corridors with his hands still heavily bandaged and led in handcuffs by a pair of silent guards. He was led into the same room each time, and that was when the entertainment began. The first few times, his captors had talked to him in the language that he did not know. He didn’t even know if they were talking to him, or talking over him; he had been cuffed to a chair in the center of the room. After sitting in the chair for what seemed like hours, he was escorted back to his cell. 

After the first few times, the visits to the room changed slightly. Now Bucky knew that his captors were obviously talking to him, trying to get him to answer questions which he didn't understand. When he tried to explain he didn't know the language, they would slap him hard across the face; likewise, if he didn't say anything at all he would be hit again. It was already a lose-lose situation, so after suffering through a few days of being slapped and punched for not saying the right thing, he just started talking nonsense when he thought a question was directed at him. They obviously knew he what he was doing, as the hits got harder after that. Then he just let them beat him. 

The daily visits to the room slowly changed, whilst he was still cuffed by the wrists when he was escorted into the room; they eventually stopped cuffing him to the chair, instead allowing him to sit unchained. He was becoming nothing but their tame punching bag. They also stopped bothering to ask him questions; instead they just began showering him with kicks and punches. His body just being kicked around the circle of masked figures that crowded around him, all trying to lay a punch.

It was in one of those circle fights when it happened; as he was punched, the bandage that wrapped around his left arm caught on his attacker’s sleeve. The bandage moved with the attacker, as the figure brought his hand back, revealing a patch of silver metal where there should have been skin. Bucky looked down in horror at his arm, pulling at the bandage more, until the entire bandage fell away. All of his emotions rushed to the surface, and he felt confusion, rage, and frantic as he continued to stare at the metal contraption that was where his left arm should be. In a frenzy, he ripped the bandages off of his right arm, scared that the cold metal would be covering that as well. There was a small moment of relief when the bandages were pulled away to reveal flesh; even if it was slightly more scarred than it had been before. The figures surrounding him had paused in their attacks, and were watching him carefully; waiting to see how he was going to react. Bucky paid them no attention as he brought both hands in front of him, and flexed his fingers. Seeing the metal fingers move identical to the ones on his right hand, this pushed him over the edge. Bucky fell to his knees and wailed as he stared at his metal arm; the noise echoing around the room as he screamed in disgust, and mourned his lost arm, and cried over what these monsters had replaced it with. 

 

It was after the discovery of the metal arm that Bucky began to realize a lot more things. He couldn't figure out why he hadn't pulled the bandages off before that incident; he had always been a curious child, and the slightest injury had intrigued him. Whilst he wasn't the biggest fan of blood, he had always wanted to look at every cut he got; he put it down to morbid fascination. He also couldn’t help but peek at things; if there was a file left out that said top secret, Bucky could never resist the urge to lift the cover up slightly just to have a look. The bandage should have been the top secret stamp on the file. Why hadn't he looked? Maybe he had and just hadn't remembered?

When he thought back to the dark cell he had been kept in, when everything hurt at every movement; Bucky hadn't noticed through the pain that his arm didn't hurt. His left shoulder had been agony, and the pain had spread like an artificial flame down what he thought was his arm. Now he knew why his shoulder had hurt so much. 

The next thing he realized was that he was losing time. Bucky knew that time hadn't been something he had the biggest grasp on when he was trapped in the first cell. But now he would be escorted from his new cell, and the next thing he would remember is waking up back in his cell. He didn't know what was happening. Were they drugging him? Was it the food? No; he didn't eat the food for three meals, and he still found himself missing chunks of his memory. Was it the water? No. They still took him out of his cell every day, but he never remembered what happened after he walked out of the door; and instead the next thing he knew he was back in his cell, more often than not passed out on the floor. Whenever he found himself lying on the floor missing a chunk of his memory, Bucky would curl in on himself and wrap his arms around his knees. He would lie on the floor and silently cry as his entire body throbbed with pain from injuries that he could not remember receiving. 

 

***

 

“Rogers, are you in position?”

"Positive sir. Target is in sight. Widow and Hawkeye are in position and are ready to proceed."

“Confirmed. Good luck Rogers.”

"Thank you sir," Steve Rogers said as he pressed a button on the comms device that was in his ear, switching its network so that it was back to the one the rest of his small team was using.  
They needed to have the smallest team possible for the mission; the chances of it going wrong needed to be minimal, and the chances of them being caught needed to be none existent. It would not go over well, if the rescue team was in need of their own rescue. 

"So Cap, are we doing this by the book just cause we've got cameras strapped to our shoulders?" Natasha's voice came through the line in his ear, quiet in the dead of the night.

Speaking too loud was a sure fire way of getting caught, and whilst they all lay close to the target building, there was even more reason to be careful and quiet. 

"Widow, you know as well as I do that these cameras are here for the president. It does not mean we will do anything different to how we normally would." Steve mumbled in response, sneaking a quick look at the miniscule camera that was embedded into the shoulder of his black military uniform. 

'Black Widows' and 'Hawkeyes' uniforms had the camera actually embedded into the shoulder of the fabric; however, on his it was placed in one of the leather straps that were used to place his shield on his back. 

"Besides, the President wants his son home; I don't personally think he's really gonna care if we spill a little bit of blood whilst doing it." Clint's voiced joined in, his tone playful and hyper.  
"Focus. We don't need another Budapest." Steve ordered, before looking through his night vision binoculars once more. 

There was no body moving around outside of the one-story building, but that didn't mean it was equally as empty inside. The intel they had managed to gather showed that the building went underground, spreading out in size as well as depth. Steve knew that the underground part of the building extended underneath where he laid on the ground, some 500 meters away from the above ground building. 

"Alright. Move in."

 

Steve carefully and quietly entered the building through his designated exit, whilst Clint and Natasha entered through their own personal entrances. They could cover more ground and move quicker if they each searched their sides first before meeting in the middle. The blue prints that Natasha had managed to get hold of showed the stairs down to the lower levels were placed in the middle of the small building, and it didn't take long for them to reach the door that hid the stairs. They were all on edge; there had been cameras in each room, but no people. Steve expected that there was probably an assault team waiting for them on the stairs, or waiting for them somewhere underground. It was too quiet. Natasha and Clint clearly agreed as they both retightened their grips on their guns; Steve simultaneously doing the same, and tightening the grip he had on the shield attached to his arm. 

There was no assault team waiting to ambush them on the stairs, and as the trio reached the bottom they found themselves facing a crossroads of corridors. A quick glance down each corridor confirmed that there was no one in immediate sight; Steve silently indicated Natasha to take one, and for Clint to take another. Receiving two nods in return they separated, once again moving in different directions to cover as much room as possible as quickly as possible. Steve moved as quietly as possible down the cement corridor, gun raised in one arm and the shield attached to the other; the lights flickered occasionally above him and he felt himself move quicker every time they did. He hated missions like this; they had no idea where their target was, and the blueprints that they had managed to acquire for the building only showed the above ground level. Natasha had found a source who had given them a brief idea about the size of the underground level, but walking through the maze of corridors, Steve couldn't help but think Nat's source had underestimated the true size of the base.

Through the comms, Steve could hear muted sounds of a fist fight occurring on either Natasha's or Clint's end. Steve moved faster, his grip on his gun tightening when he saw a door in the distance. The first door he had seen in the corridor. He slowed down when he got closer, waiting outside for a second before pulling the door open. He frowned when he found the room empty apart from a single chair in the center; he had seen the room before and hopefully that meant the target was being kept nearby. The sounds of fighting in his ear had been replaced with gun shots as he exited the room, and began moving back down the corridor. 

"Situation." He ordered quietly.

"Just taking out the trash Cap." Clint's cheerful voice echoed back in response, louder than Steve's had been. 

Steve couldn't help, but roll his eyes at his friend, and he knew Natasha was probably doing the same on her end as she quietly voiced her opinion. 

"Idiot." She said.

"Guys. Budapest." Steve growled, thankful that their mission was only being monitored via the cameras in their uniforms; their heads would probably be on spikes somewhere if their superiors ever had microphones on them during missions. 

The comms went silent of conversation as gunfire and hand to hand combat once again filled his ears; even with the sounds coming through from Hawkeye’s and Black Widow’s comms, Steve could hear someone moving a few meters behind him, trying to match their footsteps with his own. He continued moving, giving no inclination away that he knew he was being followed. Instead he discreetly lifted his shield up slightly higher, using the back of it to see a distorted reflection of his new shadow. Black uniform, face uncovered, gun raised and ready, finger not resting on the trigger properly; Steve listed off a quick mental list of information on the man who was steadily inching closer and closer the further they both walked down the corridor. Judging from the size of the reflection in his shield, Steve had to estimate that his shadow was now only two meters behind him. Too close now. Steve whirled around shooting the man in chest as his shadow was caught off guard; probably thought he was succeeding in sneaking up on me, Steve thought as he walked over to the man now lying on the floor. Kicking the gun out of the man's hand, Steve confirmed with a glance that the man was dead before breaking out at a run down the corridor. The gunshot will draw more people towards him. There was no point in trying to be quiet now.

Pulling more and more doors open as he passed them, Steve was quick and efficient every time he saw a member of the enemy gang. The order was shoot to kill, and he did exactly that as he ran from room, to corridor, to room. Kicking the door open to one of the rooms, Steve was met with a wall of screens, each screen showing the feed to a different security camera. Eyes flitted around the screens trying to spot the target, and in that moment Steve forgot the first rule they got taught when infiltrating buildings; check behind the door. Hands grabbed at the straps on his back which usually held his shield, and Steve was thrown to the floor as the straps broke in his assailant’s grasp. Swinging back to his feet, Steve watched as his attacker dropped the shredded straps of leather and instead gripped his knife tighter as he lunged forward. Steve swung out at him with the arm that was holding his shield, letting the metal collide with the back of the man’s head; the force knocking the attacker unconscious almost instantly. 

Steve kicked the knife out of the man's hand, pocketing it quickly before looking back at the screens again; scanning each one quickly before moving onto the next one. There was a map on the wall next to the security cameras, showing their locations in the base; Steve thanked god that each camera was labeled on both the map and the video feed. The only thing the map was missing was a big red ‘You Are Here Sticker’. He could figure out where he was though, now he just needed to find the target. Camera 43. There was someone curled in on themselves in what appeared to be a cell. Steve kept an eye on that video feed as he rapidly scanned the rest of them; none of the others looked as promising as that one. Cross referencing the camera on the map, Steve frowned slightly when he discovered the cameras location was in a room just around the corner. Before he left the room, Steve looked down at the man that had attacked him, still lying unconscious on the floor. Aiming his gun, Steve looked away from the attacker as he took the shot; Shoot to kill, and the unspoken no survivors was playing on repeat in his head. He hated taking lives when people were already unconscious. Stepping over the body, Steve looked at the destroyed leather straps of his shield carrier, grimacing as he looked down at the small button sized camera. DC wasn’t going to have a visual of this one after all. 

 

Steve ran the rest of the way towards the room, and as soon as he turned the corner the door was immediately in his sight. The dark brown wood of the door stood out against the cold grey concrete walls; standing in front of it, Steve peered through the iron bars of the small window, before slowly unbolting the exterior bolt. He couldn't help but notice how easy it could have been for the person inside to escape the cell if he really tried; the bolt despite being large was old and not screwed into the wood properly. If someone kicked the door hard enough from the inside, the bolt would break quickly and easily. 

He was cautious of the person inside as he slowly stepped into the cell, leaving the door wide open behind him as he moved further into the small room. The person was still curled tightly in on himself, but he had tensed and shifted slightly as soon as Steve walked into the cell; Steve knew that the slight shift was so that the man could watch him through strands of hair which were hiding his face. Steve took a final step towards where the man sat curled up on a dirty and thin blanket, before slowly crouching down so that he was at eye level. Pocketing his gun, and placing his shield down on the floor, he raised his hands up to show the figure that he had just unarmed himself, before asking gently, "James Barnes?" 

The figure twitched at the name, but did not offer any other sign of acknowledgement towards it. Steve shifted slightly to try and get a better glimpse of the other man's face, before once again trying the name. "James Buchanan Barnes?"

"Bucky?" The man’s voice cracked as he croaked out the word, as if he was testing the name on his tongue; Steve nodded in response as the man lifted his head. 

His hair fell out of his eyes, and Steve let out a sigh as he looked into the face of the president’s son. James hair was considerably longer, and he was also considerably thinner, which could be seen in the young man’s face. He was battered, bruised, and dirty; he wore nothing but a pair of oversized sweatpants, which had seen better days, and a hoodie covered in holes and stains which Steve knew was probably dried blood. 

"Yes sir. Bucky. My name is Captain Steve Rogers." Steve answered quickly as he picked up his shield off of the ground. 

"You here to rescue me?" Bucky croaked out the words again with a small tinge of sarcasm to his voice; probably the first time he'd spoken for weeks, Steve realized.

"Yes sir." Bucky nodded at Steve's words, but did not make any effort to stand up even when Steve stood up from his crouched position. 

He watched as the president’s son slowly tried to push himself up using only his right arm; his left arm kept pressed tightly against his chest. Steve offered a hand to the younger man as he watched Bucky's arm shake under the strain of trying to push himself up off the floor. Bucky accepted the offered hand, but his expression still looked utterly defeated as he stood up and swayed slightly beside Steve. There was no way the target was going to be able to walk out of the base on his own, Steve realized, shifting his shield onto his right arm instead of his left, Steve proceeded to pull Bucky's right arm over his shoulders, allowing himself to be used as a walking aid. He waited until he was sure Bucky was okay with the position before gently resting his left arm around the younger man. Steve felt the president’s son lean into him, accepting the touch and accepting the assistance as the blond helped him walk out of the cell. 

 

"I've got him; status report?" Steve spoke into the comm link as he and Bucky quickly maneuvered their way down the corridor. 

Steve couldn't help but notice how out of breath the younger man was getting with every step, and he knew it was only a matter of time before he would have to change how the target was being assisted. He doubted that Bucky would allow himself to be willingly picked up and carried; he was personally surprised that the younger man had accepted being half carried and half helped out the cell. Steve was even more surprised that the man had needed little to no assurance of who he was; the fact James Barnes hadn't even asked for proof that he was working on America's orders. Was Bucky so defeated that he would jump at any chance of escape? There was a distant look that had been in the man's eyes when he looked at him back in the cell; what had they been doing to this kid. 

"Clean on this end. Lost an aid as I was throwing out the trash Cap." Clint spoke loudly, and this time Steve could forgive him for the extra volume. 

He knew from experience that if one of Clint's hearings aids weren't working, it completely threw the man off, causing him to speak louder than he normally would. 

"Nat-"

"Already acting as a guide dog. Nearly at the stairs now." 

Steve could see them moving closer from the corridor opposite as he too reached the stairs. As he stopped at the bottom of the steps, waiting for Natasha and Clint to reach him, he felt Bucky completely collapse into his side. Catching the younger man before he fell to the floor, Steve dropped his shield on the floor before quickly scooping the man up into his arms. He found himself confused by the heavy weight of the man, as he looked severely malnourished; Steve could feel Bucky's hard muscles in his back and in his legs though as he held him against his chest. Malnourished and underfed but still muscular; what were they doing to the kid down here? Flashing a grateful smile at Natasha as she picked up his shield for him as her and Clint reached the stairs. He motioned for them to walk up first, before following after them keeping a tight grip on the unconscious man in his arms. 

 

Steve waited until they reached the spot where they'd hid their truck before pressing the button on his comm link to switch lines. Almost immediately the voices shouted straight into his ear.

"Captain Rogers."

"Mission Report."

"Were you successful?"

"All of your cameras are down, what is going on there!"

Half a dozen voices immediately spoke at once, and Steve rolled his eyes and grimaced as Natasha jumped into the driving seat, with Clint taking the passenger seat. Steve had already placed Bucky's still lifeless form across the backseat, so he carefully eased himself in next to the younger man. The blond man sent a glare at Natasha when he heard the voice complain about the cameras going down; she caught his glare in the rearview mirror and shrugged disinterested as she kicked the truck into gear and began speeding towards the rendezvous point.

"Mission Report!" The voice in his ear was louder then, and didn't Steve just hate it when a group of people sat around one microphone.

"Target acquired."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed, and I hope you continue reading this when I get around to updating it.
> 
> Regardless of what I may read/ write, I do not agree with a lot of the situations that will be written about in real life. Just putting this little warning out there as poor Bucky is going to end up being rather abused during this story, so if some of the things that will be written may offend or trigger you please let this be the warning.


	2. Reassurance

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I found myself a lovely Beta, so I just want to thank Lauren for sorting through my atrocious spelling and grammer :)

The president’s son remained unconscious for the long ride towards the airfield they were using as a rendezvous point. When Natasha pulled the truck up next to the Boeing C-17 that was their ticket home, Steve carefully lifted the president’s son into his arms once more before gently following behind Clint as he led the way to the plane. Steve could feel the Widow’s cold gaze on his back as he carried Bucky up the ramp, but he waited until he gently laid the boy down on a waiting trolley bed, gently strapping him to it before turning to her. 

"What’s wrong Nat?" Steve asked gently, as the cargo doors closed behind them; their pilot had been waiting for them ever since they got off the plane hours before. There was no time to wait around on a mission like this. Until they were halfway back towards America, the mission was still firmly in place and there was no time to kick back and relax. Strapping himself into one of the seats along the walls of the plane, Steve watched as Natasha and Clint copied his actions; the plane already beginning to pick up speed as it sped down the runway. 

Natasha looked Steve in the eyes for only a second just as the cargo plane lifted its wheels off the earth, before turning her gaze onto the unconscious man on the medical bed.

"I don't like the situation. There’s something wrong with this mission. There’s something wrong with him.” Natasha sighed as she pointed at the unconscious man, before returning her calculated stare to Steve, “He's unstable."

Steve grit his teeth together and resisted the urge to roll his eyes at the red head, but he couldn't stop himself from sarcastically retorting, "Of course he's unstable. That kid has been held captive for four months. I would be more worried if you thought he was completely fine." 

Turning from her, Steve waited until the plane began to level out slightly, before un-strapping himself from the seat. He walked back over to where Bucky laid on the hospital bed; he checked whether the young man was still unconscious before quickly nodding his approval at the medical team that was waiting cautiously along the wall of the plane. Steve watched over them as the small team rushed over; it had already been agreed that if Bucky was unconscious, they were only to check for major injuries first, and even then it was only to make sure the president’s son wasn't going to bleed to death halfway over the Atlantic. 

The medical team could do a more thorough examination when the younger man was fully conscious and actually able to make a decision. Steve knew what it was like to wake up half way through a medical examination, and he always made sure no one on his team or under his watch ever had to experience it. Sure enough the team gently checked underneath Bucky's long hair for any sign of head injuries, and even more gently, touched at the spots of blood on his clothes to make sure that they were in fact dry and not fresh; Steve had forbidden them from removing or touching underneath his clothes when he was unconscious, so any further checks had to wait. He conceded to them placing a heart rate monitor on him; the team quickly checking his vitals before taking steps back from the bed. Another rule, he didn't want the kid to wake up and see a team of strangers in scrubs staring down at him; they didn't know what had happened to the younger man, so they weren't to take any chances. 

Steve knew that Natasha had moved to stand a step behind him; her footsteps as silent as they ever were. “You didn’t disagree with me when I said there was something wrong with that mission.”

“Cause you were right. There were too many things wrong with today.” Steve agreed, as he stepped away from the medical bed, and moved to lean against the wall of the plane; the soft vibrations of movements made his back shudder against the wall.

Natasha followed after him, copying his movements; however, whilst Steve kept one eye on Bucky, she kept glancing back towards where Clint was asleep in his seat. The redhead rolled her eyes affectionately, until she saw he had lazily thrown his guns onto the seat next to him. Her look of affection quickly turned into mild distaste. The small pile of unused magazines that sat next to the guns reminded her all too well of one of the main things wrong with the mission.

“It was too easy.” She voiced casually, receiving a nod of agreement in response. 

“If you’d kidnapped the president’s son, you would have a lot more people in the hideout. I mean seriously how many even were there?” Steve ranted, running a hand through his blond hair, fingers grasping and pulling at the strands in frustration. 

The kidnapping of James Buchanan Barnes had been the sound on people’s lips for months, and the media hype about it was off the scale. It was high profile, and nothing else in the media had even come close to matching it. Every article and news story that even slightly touched on anything political had made some reference to Bucky. Oh, some paparazzi got a photo of some trivial politician’s son falling out of nightclub at two in the morning; here’s an old photo of Bucky getting drunk at a state dinner when he was just sixteen. There wasn’t a day that went by where there wasn’t another bullshit claim in a newspaper about whom kidnapped the First Son of the United States, nor was there a day where the finger of blame wasn’t pointed at a different country. 

“Clint and I took out about two dozen combined. What about you?”

“Four.” Steve grunted in a huff of frustration. 

Let’s kidnap the President’s son, keep him captive for four months, and only have twenty-six men on guard. “Maybe there were more, and they got tipped off?”

Natasha snorted in response, as her dry humor showed itself. “You know we can’t even think those kind of accusations, let alone voice them. The only people who knew about this little trip of ours were all sat in The Situation Room; less than ten feet away from the President himself.”

“I’m not making accusations, I’m just saying. We either have to accept that maybe someone has an inside hand in this, or maybe the President’s only son really was kidnapped by a group of twenty-six men.” Steve sighed, with Natasha simultaneously copying the action. 

Regardless of which option was the truth, if either, they both knew that the entire Secret Service was going to get another bollocking. Hopefully their little team of three would be drafted out again before the bollocking took place. They didn’t typically work security, but they occasionally found themselves having to do the occasional bodyguard assignment for extremely important foreign visitors. One of Steve’s personal favorite memories was when their boss, Nick Fury, the Director of the Secret Service, had thrown a fit at Natasha; she had been working security for the Queen of England on one of her visits, and Fury had found Natasha and the Queen discussing shotgun’s and rifle range. Fury refused to put Natasha back on security unless drastically necessary; the Queen, however, now insisted on having Natasha watch her whenever she visited. 

Natasha broke Steve from his thoughts and from his memories with a gentle touch on the shoulder; turning his attention back onto her, Steve nodded as she spoke, “Just be careful what you say until we tell Fury, and figure out more information. We went in there on breadcrumbs already.”

“You warning me not to go searching for needles, when I don’t even know if there’s a haystack?” Steve smirked knowingly at his friend, a gesture which the redhead returned before she walked back towards where Clint was sleeping. 

“Something like that.”

 

Steve didn’t move far from the medical bed, nor did he move far from the wall he had leaned against earlier. Instead of moving back towards the seats where Clint was still sleeping, and Natasha was cleaning her guns; the blond man had shifted so that he sat on the floor, his upper body half leaning against the medical bed, and half leaning against the plane wall. Admittedly it was not the comfiest of positions to be in, and there was nothing Steve wanted more than to move back over to the other side of the plane, but he wanted to be able to be right there when Bucky eventually woke up. One of the medical team had come over to check on the younger man about an hour after take-off, and had informed the hovering Captain that it was unlikely Bucky was going to wake up for a little while. From what they could tell, the man was exhausted, and more than likely dehydrated and extremely malnourished. Reluctantly, Steve had agreed that it was probably best for the younger man’s health that they place a saline drip in his arm, and had aided the nurse in rolling up Bucky’s right sleeve. He couldn’t help the comment that slipped from his tongue as she inserted the needle into the crook of the brunette’s elbow, “Don’t say I didn’t warn you, when the first thing he does when he wakes up is pull that out.” 

The nurse had simply glared at him, clucking her tongue as she finished her work and walked away, muttering under her breath about ‘Bloody soldiers’. Steve didn’t care what the nurse and the rest of the medical team said about him, he knew that he was going to be right.

They were approximately half way through the long flight back to Washington, and they still had another five hours before they touched down. Natasha had somehow managed to locate a couple of pillows, and had distributed them out between the three of them. Both Nat and Clint had put their seats up and had lain down on the floor; spreading out more than they would have been able to, compared to if they had stretched out across the fold-down seats. Steve had stayed awake, even when the other two fell asleep. He had used the pillows that Natasha had thrown at him as a combined back support and as a cushion to sit on; the floor was cold and uncomfortable. He was determined to be awake when Bucky finally woke up; from experience he knew that victims tended to calm down quicker if they woke up and saw the face of their rescuer. It was also a safety precaution, no one knew how Bucky would react when he was woken up. They didn’t know what happened to him during his kidnapping and there was nearly a definite risk of the kid lashing out. It was safer for him to lash out at someone who could take it rather than at a defenseless member of the medical team. Steve was essentially there to either calm the kid down by his presence or handle him if the situation called for it. He hoped it wouldn’t come down to handling, but the distant look that had been in the kids eyes suggested to Steve that it was probably going to. 

The first signs of Bucky stirring were the slightest change in breathing, and the way the steady beating coming from the heart rate monitor picked up by a few extra bleeps. Steve had been waiting for any change, and was instantly on his feet standing by the side of the medical bed; he forced himself to ignore the pins and needles in one foot and the fact his other leg had gone to sleep. Looking down at the younger man, Steve had to just stand and wait as he watched Bucky’s eyes beginning to move slightly behind his eyelids. 

In the bright lights that hung from the roof of the plane’s ceiling, Steve couldn’t help, but stare at the injuries that were scattered across the visible sections of skin; he knew that the injuries no doubt continued underneath the ratty clothes that Bucky was wearing. The clothes were unbelievably ratty as well, and they were clearly not what the President’s son was wearing when he was kidnapped. The right side of the thin hoodie that Bucky was wearing was more holes than fabric, but the left side was considerably less battered; Steve couldn’t help but frown as his eyes followed the left arm of the hoodie down. There were no holes on that arm, and when his eyes reached the wrist, the sleeve disappeared into the cuff of a wool glove; straining his head over to look at the right side, Steve’s frown deepened when he saw that there was no glove on the right hand. Weird, but not important, Steve dismissed, as his attention got drawn to the layers of dirt that were covering Bucky’s face and the visible skin. His captors may have provided him with clothes, but they clearly didn’t allow him the privilege of a wash. 

Steve waited patiently beside the medical bed as Bucky slowly woke up; Steve waited until he saw the younger man begin to open his eyes before he pushed the small button the medical team had told him about. It was supposed to tell them that Bucky was waking up, and Steve had to reluctantly accept that it was now time for them to actually do their job. He waited for the medical team to turn up, he also watched as Bucky finally blinked awake; the blue eyes that greeted Steve stared blankly at the ceiling for a moment before they widened in what Steve could only think to be fear. 

“Bucky… Bucky. You are safe.” Steve soothed in his most calming voice. 

The words did nothing to calm the younger man down, as Bucky tried to lift his head up off the of the medical bed, eyes not moving as they raced around the room trying to take everything in, as the younger man clearly tried to understand where he was and what was going on. Finally Bucky’s eyes stopped on Steve. Steve frowned softly as the panic and fear did not leave the younger man’s face. 

“Hey. Bucky it’s Steve… Captain Steve Rogers.” Steve tried once again to sooth the frantic fear that was seeping out of the younger man. 

The fear seemed to only grow when Steve gently placed a hand on Bucky’s shoulder trying to keep him still, when the President’s son tried to push himself up off of the medical bed. Pulling his hand back immediately after he realized it wasn’t helping the panicked man; Steve tried desperately to look into the younger man’s face, as said man kept whipping his head around trying to look everywhere at once. Bucky barely looked at something for a second before his head whipped around to glance at something else; the shadows in the corner of his eyes not aiding the terror that was coursing through his blood and the panic that was pounding in his heart and his brain.

Steve could hear footsteps fast approaching behind him, and a quick glance over his shoulder confirmed it was the medical team rushing over. Turning back to Bucky, he noticed that the younger man was now staring at the medical team in pure dread; as Bucky glanced at him, Steve noticed that the dread stayed in the younger mans eyes. 

“Do you remember me?” Steve asked cautiously, holding a hand up behind him to silently tell the medical team to wait and stand back. 

“No.” Bucky sobbed, as the anxiety of the situation made his voice catch in his throat as his eyes jumped from Steve to the medical team, to Natasha and Clint whom had woke up and were now standing a few steps behind the medical team. 

Steve’s breath caught in his chest as he stepped back slightly. There were so many reasons why Bucky could have forgotten Steve; he could have been in a dazed state when Steve had rescued him and it could be from shock. Sleep deprivation, anxiety, nutritional deficiency were also less likely possibilities, but even Steve’s minor medical knowledge knew that memory loss could occur from them. It could also be from something a lot more serious, and that made Steve worry more. Some of the worse scenarios flashed quickly through Steve’s head; head Injury.

The President’s son grabbed onto the edge of the medical bed with both hands. Steve could see the force that Bucky was holding on with as the knuckles on his right hand turned white under the strain. Turning his head to nod at Natasha, Steve turned back to watch as Bucky let his head drop into chest; the frenzied sobs coming from the younger man filled the cargo hold, and there was nothing that Steve could do to help. 

From the deep inhales coming from a few of the medical team behind him, Steve could only presume that Bucky was having or on the verge of having an anxiety attack, and there was nothing that they could do to help, nothing they could do to calm the man down. Bucky’s grip on the medical bed only strengthened as the entire metal bed shook slightly at one particular sob. Steve watched as Natasha began to sneak around the edge of the small group; the small red-head edging closer and closer to the back of the medical bed armed with nothing but a needle. With the heavy and loud sobs, and with his head buried into his own chest, Bucky failed to notice when Natasha finally came to a stop directly behind him; he only jerked his head up when Nat sank the needle into his neck, pressing the plunger down with a quick efficiency that left Bucky unconscious in seconds. 

Stepping forwards again, Steve took the kids shoulders in both hands, before gently shifting his grip so that he could grasp the back of his knees as well. Shifting the unconscious man back onto the middle of the bed, Steve caught the sight of a large dent which was now on the metals edge. Running a finger along the dent, and testing the strength of the metal with his hand; Steve frowned in confusion as he realized the dent was perfectly hand-sized. Natasha, whom had moved to stand next to Steve, watched in equal confusion, before glancing at the dent, to Bucky, to the other part of the metal bed which the younger man had grasped. She frowned as she looked at Bucky’s hand, mentally comparing it to the size of the dent; her frown deepened as she glanced between the younger man’s left and right hands. Reaching over, she barely touched the cuff of the glove before Steve wrapped his own hand around her wrist. 

“It’s just a glove Steve.” The red head warned him; her voice was cold, quiet and steady, but it still held so much threat. 

“No.” Steve matched the glare she sent at him, his hold on her wrist still strong as he lifted her arm slightly higher in the air.

“No. You are being vetoed on this Steve. I am taking that glove off, and we are going to find out how he managed to make that dent.” 

Natasha’s glare turned deadly for a second before Steve dropped his hold on her wrist with a look that resembled a kicked puppy. Natasha waited until Steve had taken a step back from the bed, before she put her hand back on the cuff of the glove on Bucky’s left hand. Gently pulling the fabric down and off, shock caused her voice to shake as she called out to no one in particular, “Someone call Stark. We’re going to need him on this.”

Steve looked up from the ground at Natasha’s words, quickly moving back to where he had stood. Glancing at the glove in Nat’s hand, Steve couldn’t tear his eyes away from the cold silver metal that was in place instead of flesh. After staring at the metal fingers for a moment, Steve turned to look at Nat; finding her already watching him, waiting for his reaction, he simply nodded at his friend before ushering the medical team over. 

“Nat, call Stark or call Pepper, call anyone. Just get hold of him.” 

Steve began to lay out orders, he motioned to Clint to stand on the other side of the medical bed, before turning to the medical team who had congregated around the edges of the bed. “We need to examine him. How long is that anesthetic going to keep him under?”

 

***

 

The anesthetic didn’t keep Bucky unconscious for long, but it was long enough for the medical team to fully examine the young man. Steve had felt his stomach churn when they had diverted the unconscious man of the hoodie to see how far the metal extended. The metal expanded up from the hand, continuing up from the wrist, and past the elbow and up to the shoulder; the shoulder was where it got messy. The metal was melted into the skin, with burn scars stretching out and up towards his neck, and down towards his pectoral; whomever had tried to attach the metal had tried several ways to make it stick. There were signs that someone had tried to melt the top of the arm into the skin, and signs around the back that they had attempted to melt the skin onto the arm instead. Deep scars which looked to be from a surgical procedure stood raised red and ugly along Bucky’s back. Whoever did this should be shot, Steve decided as he stared at the damaged skin on the younger man’s back. 

The examination also confirmed what Steve had thought; Bucky was underweight and malnourished. Through the maze of scars on the young man’s back, nearly every notch in his spine could be seen through the skin; the same was true for his ribs. Other than the scars, the young man’s body was littered in various cuts and wounds that varied from half-healed to new. The bruising blanketed most of Bucky’s body and in sections the skin was more blue and purple than it was white. There was nothing that could really be done for the injuries though, other than clean and dab antiseptic on the cuts and carefully smother the bruises in cream. After the medical team finished with their examination, they aided Steve and Clint in redressing Bucky in a set of clean scrubs; they were the only clothes that were on board the plane. Natasha had rematerialized when Clint and Steve were carefully trying to remove some of the dirt on Bucky’s face with wet wipes. 

“Tony and Pepper are currently away on the yacht for the next few weeks, no phones, no outside communication.” Natasha informed with a huff of annoyance; it had taken her several attempts on both Tony’s and Pepper’s phones, before she started trying to contact Stark’s driver. It had taken twelve tries before Happy even answered his phone and by then Natasha’s patience had begun to run thin. 

“If it was any other situation, that would be funny. Can you imagine either of them going a day without their phones?” Clint laughed to himself for a moment before turning back to where Bucky lay unconscious with a sigh. 

Both Steve and Natasha rolled their eyes at their friend, knowing that he was trying to add humor for the sake of the situation. They all knew that Tony Stark being out of reach for the next few weeks was just another piece of shit luck. 

 

***

 

The second time Bucky woke up, they were only an hour away from landing. As he blinked up at the ceiling, the bright strip lights made him frown in confusion; they weren’t like the lights in his cell. He squeezed his eyes closed, before opening them once more to check that he wasn’t just imagining his change in scenery. Sure enough when he opened his eyes and looked again, the same lights were attached to the metal ceiling. The ceiling was what made Bucky frown though; it wasn’t like the ceiling of his cell, nor was it like the ceilings of any other rooms he remembered. It was curved, and had an array of pipes, wires, fuse boxes and other things he didn’t know attached to it. The more he stared around the room, the more Bucky began to take in. It was when he finally recognized what the sound was, that made him sit up off of the medical bed he had been placed on. He was on a plane, and from his new seated position he was able to figure out what sort of plane he was on. The location he was in, and the overall size confirmed to him it was on military plane; he just didn’t know what sort. 

On the other side of the cargo hold, three people stood watching him; one of them was cautiously moving closer. The man who was moving closer to Bucky caused a twinge of familiarity to swim through his mind, disappearing as quickly as it appeared. As the man took another step closer to the bed, Bucky looked down at his lap, staring at where his hand and the thing rested. The metal was on full view to the room, and Bucky had to resist the urge to gag as he stared at the lights reflection in the metal. He didn’t care that they had undressed him and redressed him in whatever he was now wearing; he didn’t even care that the new outfit was the cleanest thing he had worn in god knows how long. The only thing he cared about was the fact the monstrosity was on full view to the world, and the fact he had to look at it as well. 

The man had moved closer still as Bucky had been distracted by glaring at the cold metal limb; and now stood stationary a few feet from the bed. Bucky chanced a look at the man’s face, instead of staring at his feet; he couldn’t read the emotion behind the blond man’s eyes, but he knew that there was probably disgust there. He just knew. He was disgusted by the thing as well. 

“Do you know who I am?” The man asked, Bucky looked back at the man’s face frowning as flickers of a memory teased his mind. He’d seen him before. The same man standing over him in the same room; it had to be the same room, it had the same ceiling. But he didn’t know how he got on the plane, and he didn’t know how he’d been removed from his cell. Was this a trick? He couldn’t remember seeing this man before, but there was a name there. It began with an ‘S’, that much Bucky could remember. 

“S… Sam? No. St- Stu…” Bucky attempted, frowning as he fought against the fog in his brain, grasping mental strings as he tried to remember. 

He could hear the man’s voice in his mind telling him something, but he just couldn’t remember what was being said. He kept his gaze on the man’s face as he continued to sieve through thoughts, fighting against the haziness. “No. Ste… Steve?” he tried again, the name sounding familiar.

“That’s right Bucky. Do you know where you are?” The man, Steve, asked.  
His face had lit up when Bucky had got the name right, and that confused Bucky even more. Why was the man so happy just because he remembered a name? It was probably because of whatever happened when he woken up earlier. If only Bucky could remember what had happened. It was probably just another thing that would be forever lost to him, another in the long list of things. 

“A plane.” Bucky answered his voice flat and emotionless. It was such an obvious answer, that it almost annoyed him that he got asked such a question.

“Good. Do you know where we’re going?” Steve asked another question, this time his voice was more hopeful. Bucky could only presume why the man was being so hopeful; and shit if he wasn’t hopeful as well.

“Home?” This time his voice wasn’t flat, it held even more hope than Steve’s had. When Steve nodded in response to his question, Bucky couldn’t help the sob of relief that escaped his throat. He didn’t even mentally question if this was a trick now. He felt like he trusted the man; there was something there that Bucky just couldn’t remember. He didn’t know why he should or why he did, but if Steve said that he was going home, all he could do was believe that he was. Bucky brought his knees up to his chest, wrapping his real arm around them as he rested his forehead; he forced himself not to move the thing, keeping it as still as possible by his side. He heard someone click their fingers, but he refused to look up and show them the tears that had formed in his eyes. 

“Bucky? Here.” Steve’s voice made Bucky look up, regardless of the tears in his eyes. 

He saw the blond man holding out three leather wallets towards him, waiting for him to take them. He also saw that the red-head woman and the other man had moved to stand behind Steve; it was obviously Steve who had clicked his fingers to get them to move closer. They probably wanted to stay as far back as possible from the thing. Bucky couldn’t blame them. Taking the three leather wallets from Steve, Bucky held them in his hand for a moment just staring at them, until the man behind Steve mimed opening them. With a frown on his face, Bucky carefully flipped the first one open; the frown quickly being replaced with a mixture of shock and comfort. Inside the first wallet was an ID card and a badge, one he had seen so many times before; he knew what these badges looked like, and he knew immediately that the one in his hands was not fake. Setting the first one aside, leaving it open on the medical bed next to him; Bucky opened the other two, happy to see that these were also genuine. Running a finger along the edges of one of the leather wallets, he looked up at the three secret service agents in front of him. 

A thank you was just beginning to form on Bucky’s tongue when the man behind Steve, who’s ID card named him as Clint Barton, spoke up, “We just thought you might like proof you know. Reassurance and stuff.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The inside of the plane. Just imagine it without the tank, and with a medical bed pushed against one side...
> 
> The secret service badges/ wallets that Steve, Clint and Natasha had.


End file.
